One Each.

Sliver

To me a sliver must always
recall the heady halcyon days
of youth, and Magic cards.

Slivers came in every colour,
black and white and red all over,
as well as blue and green.

Each sliver’s stat-augmenting skill
applied to all its kin til killed,
the whole the sum of parts.

And though I sold or gave away
my cards some years ago, today
I think of slivers still.

I think of slivers, old Urza,
the fruitful Elves of Llanowar,
and dark Dark Rituals,

the stench of the Phyrexian slag,
the noble angels, evil hags
on which our decks were built.

And looking back, though it ain’t purty,
I recollect: God we were nerdy,
but nerdy we were gods.

Sonnet of Sleep

Last night, as I lay lying in a deep
and downy, doona’d slumber, there arose
such phantasms as manifest in sleep
(or SBS late-night slash early shows) –
a night parade of hypothetic selves,
all variations on the theme of me,
I saw a mop-haired tubby boy of twelve,
a thinner, stubbled self at twenty three;
a me with thicker gut, but thinner hair,
and one who held a toddler at his hip,
me paper-skinned and snow-haired in a chair,
me in some hospital, placed on a drip.
Though all along I lay in bed, I knew,
I, from my dream awakening, thought them true…

T and I were at a bar with D and H. There were carts laden with cakes and it was dark. I had possession of a book that was blank, but as I turned the pages hand writing was appearing. David Bowie’s writing. David Bowie was writing to me through the book.

I walked out of the bar with the book and into Collingwood. As soon as I entered Collingwood I was lost. But it was okay, David Bowie was still talking to me through the book and he guided me through the streets and alleyways.

This continued for a while, David Bowie communicating to me through the book as I navigated Collingwood. But then the next message to come through the book was signed by TJ. I was upset - had it been TJ writing to me through the book this whole time and not David Bowie? I went back to the bar. When I arrived at the bar, D and H were angry because I had chewed the sides of the book off and it belonged to them.

Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots

Remembering rapt and rigorous attention,
how we sat in silence, as the speakers hissed
wails and warbles from whereabouts unknown.
Approaching Pavonis Mons, preaching the word
of Wayne, wild-eyed warrior-poet, grey
hair and heartful, heliotropic sound
issued forth to function as finally, this:
a bridge not yet burnt by being forgotten.

Love Song (or, I Can Haz Peach Flannel Trousers?)

Michelangelo rubs the window-panes
rubs the chimneys

time yet for
toast and tea

Michelangelo will wonder,
his hair rich and thin

should I?
should I?

I, white in the lamplight,
with light brown hair

should I then?
should I begin?

at dusk through the smoke
lonely men lean out of windows

while sunsets and teacups
trail along the screen

I grow my hair
I dare

peach flannel trousers
I have them